


A Risk Worth Taking

by Silkystripe



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Affection, F/M, First Meetings, Las Vegas, Massage, Masturbation, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Other, Slow Build, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-04-23 17:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silkystripe/pseuds/Silkystripe
Summary: Stan's luck turns around for the better when he meets you in Vegas, and after becoming fast friends, it starts to feel like that isn't quite enough for either of you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started writing in summer of last year - I've currently finished about 3 or 4 parts depending on how I split it up. I'm hoping to finish it off over this summer! It was originally written as something purely self-indulgent, but I'm rewriting it at the moment so you can get a kick out of it too (hopefully!) It will get explicit in later chapters, and I'll add more tags as more happens.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading through it as much as I enjoyed writing it! x

Machines clattered. Chimes and bells and whistles sustained a constant state of disorientation, harried noises filling any remaining semblance of peace with the pull of each handle, the press of each button under the weight of unfulfilled optimism and misguided fortitude, and the prevalence of heavy smoke and ash in thickened air that consumed the throat. It combined with insistent chatter, cheers of joy from some and snarls of indignation from most. Another pull of the lever and a low grunt emitted from him as a familiar message reflected in the light of his broadly framed glasses.

Another loss for Stanley Pines.

Every loss held the same result: a kick of his foot against the base of the machine that let out a muffled clank beneath the sounds of the environment, a slam of his fist near the centre of the screen—enough to add to the ambience but not enough to shatter the surface—and a sound from within him, varying from a muttered curse to a fervid yell.

                “This thing’s rigged,” he’d say about every third time, as if such a thing wasn’t a superfluous notion in casinos. He could count on both hands, just about, the number of places he’d raided that night alone, and the same number an equal indication of those that he had been barred from. “I don’t know how that card got in my sleeve!” he’d shout while authorities grappled him from the premises. His back creaked and throbbed in repentant nostalgia. “That dice was there when I got here, it’s not weighted, feel it!” was another. Each scream, each lie, told between desperate breaths and kicked legs was enveloped in a mantra of I swear – I swear it was, I swear it wasn’t, _I swear I swear I swear!_

Nestled into his seat in the farthest corner of the hallway dotted with bustling machines, it was a feat to decide what was worse: the amount that he’d lost or the depleting options he had left. While known for its gambling, Vegas was running out of establishments that could legally contain him, and while the slots were hardly his first choice, they were a last-ditch effort to regain some sense of victory in an evening of predominant humiliation. His fist collided with the screen again, two times in a row, slammed against its near-blinding baby blue light. He rolled his tongue and clasped to the metal lever with frustrated tension in his fingers. That colour would haunt him.

To his left, he had given bare regard to a similarly elderly gentleman with far kinder disposition. Far older, even, he considered to his own confidence that in comparison he could regain some of his youth. They had barely spoken. His agitated state left little room for words, least of all pleasant ones, and he saved them all for grumbles and his most favourite of obscenities. Any residual energy he saved for the waitress making rounds with champagne glasses, at least it tasted like champagne, held with perfected civility upon a tray suspended by pointed fingertips. She hadn’t returned in long enough for him to miss the bitterness on his tongue and the bubbles tickling at his lips, the royalty it provided him in that rare moment of luxury. He tugged at the hem of his buttoned-up blue shirt speckled with white flowers and collar popped open with boyish tenacity as the seat to his right was filled by someone, though not in any way he cared to notice.

Two options remained in that moment, and in his current state: Go home. The phrase repeated like a wishful chant in his head. Take what little money you have left and book it—or try again, riding off the sense of hopeless sanguinity and addiction, pure addiction, and it worked wonders to move his arm without much mental input. He reached, he pulled, he played. A zombie would have had better impulse control. With jaw tightly clenched and brows furrowed in a bushel of creases, his grunt fell from him unprompted and undue before the screen could change.

He won.

He kicked both feet, fists raised up rather than slamming down, and held his body up taut from its usual slouch. In doing so, his chest became a better representation of a barrel and a suggestion of youth returned with it, barring the sore twinge that pulsed through the meat of his shoulders.

                “Sweet saltwater taffy, Stan’s _back_ baby!” He exclaimed, considering secondly his surroundings before punctuating his pride with an additional “ _Fuck_ yeah!”

Caution crept into him next, settling in his head with a short exhale and the drop of his shoulders. One win doesn’t necessarily mean another. Still, another bet was required—technically he hadn’t lost if he was still playing, an undoubtedly healthy way to approach things—so he pulled again, fingers crossed on the opposite hand, and legs folded underneath for extra measure. To his loud and vocalised delight, he won again. He turned to his left to gesture to him, his gambling companion with no name, pointing emphatically to his triumph. In return, the man gave a gentle shrug, and Stan turned to his right to conduct the same routine.

His expression fell.

You were standing, dusting off your seat and satisfied in your singular gamble simply to be able to say that you had. You corrected the hem of your skirt, black and tight around the knees, his attention darting to it and the glimpse of frayed garter underneath until he focused back on your face, namely your eyes. This called for it: gentility. Not a favourite of his by any means, he was a man of spare favouritism, much less pleading. Its requirement both spurred and exasperated him.

                “Hey, wait—” One arm raised, not daring to touch, but it was enough to divert your focus back to him. At first, you were unreadable, an understandable response when spoken to by a stranger and he forgave you for that in an instant. “I, uh, I wasn’t winning anything until you sat down. Must be luck or somethin’, I don’t know…” his voice disappeared into a low grumble, left hand reaching up to rub at the side of his neck in a premeditated demonstration of embarrassment and sympathy. “Would you mind sticking around for a little while?”

It was a relief that you smiled, a little unsure but steadfast in its politeness, a curve of red that matched the colour of your daubed fingertips, and reclaimed the seat next to him. You idly played with the straps and chains slung across your shoulder that attached to a bag held to your hip with the other hand, legs held just as tightly together.

                “I promise, if I lose this one, you don’t gotta stay. Just… superstition or… whatever.” He shrugged his shoulders, rolling them back with a pronounced crack while you laughed carefully into the cup of your hand.

                “It’s okay,” you were quiet, almost indiscernible under the surrounding noise. Mouth held open a fraction, you thought to say more, but nothing came. He turned back ahead of him to the screen taunting him for another play, another toss of money into the unknown, and while one hand squeezed at his knee, the other reached for another pull of the handle. He waited, you waited, his unnamed fellow gambler waited, holding a breath dense with salt and smoke from around you.

He won.

Excitement built between the three, and he played, and won again.

He played.

He won.

Each win fractured the ice of tension little by little, replacing the unease amid strangers to a favourable atmosphere of humorous familiarity, boisterous laughter, and cheers of delight as a small crowd began to form. The waitress returned to the noise, and he dutifully picked two flutes from the tray, handing one to you—his lucky charm. Favouritism was growing on him.

As things peaked, his inhibitions dulled with the alcohol the waitress continued to bring in droves to promote more activity, and he found himself with an uncharacteristic awareness and clarity. A deep breath filled him and released, turning in his seat to his most wonderful audience to speak to them with his signature gruffness, made only more gravelly by the sting in his throat,

                “Sorry, folks, it’s about time I cash out. Never know when your luck’s going to turn,” and he turned to his embodiment of luck, rolling a dribble of translucent liquid in your glass within your right hand, brushing the other through the hair on the back of your head. While the crowd dispersed with mixed mutters of disappointment and disbelief at the events of the evening, he turned to face you fully, and you caught him out of the corner of your eye.

                “Hey, thanks… thanks for sticking with me. ‘preciate it, and I think I… owe you one, really, for stealin’ your evening away.” He quickly remembered his earnings and printed the receipt, holding it carefully between both hands with an eagerness settling in to cash it before anything unforeseen could tear it away from him. “Can I get you a—uh—” His mind fluttered to possibilities. A drink? Too cheeky, too cheap? You knew exactly how much he had won. Despite his instincts screaming at him for it, he couldn’t get away with his usual parsimonious ways. “How ‘bout a meal? My treat. There are lots of decent lookin’ places around here if you’re up for it.”

You stared down into the body of your glass, tilting it to pool its remaining contents and then down it completely. The silence made him easily regret his words, perhaps the ones he’d chosen or the offer in its entirety, and relief washed those qualms away when you turned to him in your seat. A bit wobbly, which brought a chuckle out from him, but you still smiled in red and with pink on your cheeks and across the ridge of your nose, your fingers beginning to prod and circle the dark lace material spread across your neck.

                “I’m always up for good food,” you spoke simply, picking off a small piece of fabric from your thigh in another movement that succeeded in calling his attention to it. Your hand smoothed the cloth back over, nestled with the palm flat, and his eyes caught back up with yours. “But maybe tomorrow. It’s a bit late.”

                “No such thing as late in Vegas, but I hear ya.” Not quite wanting to admit it, the buzz of the evening had escaped him, leaving a weary sort of exhaustion but one of quiet satisfaction. “Meet you outside this place tomorrow? Maybe lunch—you eat lunch, right?” He paused to cough into his balled fist, “We’ll find someplace nice to go, uh, eat.”

                “Sounds great, I love eating lunch.” You spoke with a slightly cocked brow and a titter, rising from your seat which he replicated in a fluster of steps, during which he offered his hand for you to shake.

                “Name’s Stan by the way—Stan, Stanley, but Stan works.” He cleared his throat again, the knuckles of his other hand resting at his hip with receipt held between thick fingers while you took the other outstretched hand, hesitantly, sharing their mutual clamminess.

                “I’m,” you faltered for only a moment, “Doe.”

                “…using an alias, huh?” He shook your hand firmly, a low chuckle rumbling in the back of his throat. “I don’t blame you. See you tomorrow?”

                “See you, Stan.”

You waved with a tight smile pulled to one side and turned to leave, his eyesight trailing short behind. He sat, decompressing in the chair with his weight dropping instantly into it, turning to the small slip of paper in his grasp only once you were completely beyond his vision. Reading the numbers, disbelieving and delighted at his luck, one hand raked through his tousled grey hair.

                “Only in Vegas,” the words startled him, and he turned to spot the man to his left giving him a light-hearted laugh and a pat on the shoulder, to which he recoiled and asked defensive in his tone, “What? What are you talking about?”

                “Only in Vegas can guys like us get dates like _that_.”

 

* * *

 

 

The daytime heat sweltered, bending the streets on the horizon like a muddy oil painting. It was a stark contrast to the indoors of the casino which, despite the density of its environment, at least had some form of air conditioning to speak of and an intermittent breeze that would make the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. Stan flattened the thick palms of his hands against his upper thighs, rubbing downwards to reduce the moisture building up on his skin, then reached back with attempted nonchalance to swab at the nape of his neck. The brightness of his clothing served to reflect some of the heat, at least his pearly formal trousers did; not so much the chain around his neck culminating in a gaudy, searing medallion snuggled in the stray hairs of his chest. He hooked his thumb underneath to lift it, dangling, and relished in the immediacy of his sweat cooling underneath in the absence of metal. Afterwards, he peeled back the sleeve of his shirt to access his watch for an inquisitive glance, deciding in afterthought to roll it all the way up to his elbow and do the same on the other arm.

Thank goodness, he turned, spotting you—you were here. Thank goodness you were also dressed casually. He had spent more than enough time imagining how you might arrive and how he might choke on any words that managed to get past his head. You were taller in his memory, your skirt far shorter when he had recalled it later, though the dress of the evening had been replaced by the simplicity of a light flannel shirt and pale-blue jeans. It was only when you gave a look of concern on your tilted head that he thought to fix his scowl, the rancorous eyes and crumpled brows that his features rested in which, without reminder, would settle back in an instant. A temperate smile under the shield of his hand pressed against his forehead was the most he could offer.

                “Hey, uh, Du—Doe?” You nodded. “Good to see ya, and in better lighting. Didn’t run off on me, eh?” Despite the previous corrections, the roughness of his voice was an unfixable trait, sounding perpetually like a throat in dire need of clearing.

                “Not when there’s free food involved,” you shrugged one shoulder, cocking your head towards it before straightening. You said nothing of the morning you had spent mulling and pacing, weighing the possibilities for an awkward encounter with what was an acquaintance at best until hunger aches had won the argument. “Any place you’d like to go especially?”

                “Anywhere that’s out of the heat.” With extra thought, he added: “It’s your meal, though, so you choose.” Flippant, at best. He was trying.

The walk along the strip was brisk, a palpable quietness held between you until you reached a modest diner off the side of a far more bustling casino. It was immediate, the change in environment and disposition, in the way the mingling scent of tobacco and chlorine from the various fountain displays exchanged with that of the grill, hissing out of sight and draping the most enticing smell of food around you. Stan pulled out a chair from under your designated table and shifted to sit before catching himself, standing back, and offering it to you. It was quiet, still, while you waited to order and the heat began to dissipate. Once the waiter doted on you, Stan cocked a brow at your choice, otherwise withholding any convictions to himself. It arrived after yet another period of silence with intermittent discussion, plates plopped initially ahead of the wrong person until you switched them with a quiet exchange of laughter.

                “Jeez, you want some pancake with that chocolate?” Stan reflected, eyeing over your plate with incredulity. Somewhere under a mountain of hazelnut spread and chocolate sauce there _were_ a couple of pancakes, teeming with chocolate chips, and a sizeable dollop of ice cream beginning to melt on the side. You shook your head, smile unfaltering.

                “Hey, don’t judge,” you cut into your treacly mass and held a dripping portion to your lips, “this is my choice.”

                “Not judgin’, just… damn. Remind me to watch out when you’re bouncing off the walls later.” An inelegant bite into his comically oversized burger left a sludgy mixture of grease and condiments spilling from the other side, and halfway through chewing his mouthful, he cleared his throat and asked, voice flat and casual, about you. About what you do, first, to which you responded with your hand over your mouth and a pause to swallow your morsel of confection, after which he listened to you rattle off the basics. He nodded, hummed but made little eye contact, though not out of any disinterest in the topic. He held under his belt years of hearing stories, lives condensed into a digestible piece, some he cared to remember, and others he didn’t. He continued to eat while you did so sparingly between speech, which would quieten or louden depending on the given moment it was rolled clumsily off the tongue.

Then he announced his—his Mystery Shack, referred to simply as his “pride ‘n’ joy” back in Oregon, though the pause that followed that introduction left you swallowed with thought. He drank from his glass, a lengthy series of gulps that bobbed his Adam’s apple underneath, before propping the cup back down with a light tap against the wood.

                “So…” You dangled your fork with one hand, swirling a puddle of melted cream into your plate. “Why’re you here and not back home with your business? Taking a vacation?”

                “Nah, nothin’ like that. I mean not really—sometimes I get the itch, y’know? To come back an’ gamble, cheat a little cash. So this time I gave in and took a road trip to, uh, ‘see the sights’.” His shoulders bounced as he snickered, leaning back comfortably in his seat with a light creak under his weight. “Guess I must be gettin’ a little rusty with my work though, heh... got thrown out of most of ‘em and they’ve got a photo of my mug in case I try to—”

                “Oh, right, you told me about that.”

                “—I did?” He pushed his glasses back up the ridge of his nose after a dip of his head slipped them down. “When?”

                “Last night, don’t you remember? While you were winning and yelling all sorts of things.”

                “Huh... I didn’t think I drank _that_ much.”

                “Me neither, I think it was more the money than anything. You were practically delirious.”

                “Hm. Well, whatever, point is—I’m a master of switchin’ identities, so, you know—they ain’t seen the last of Stan, or should I say... uh... Saxon... Pendergast.” A flat look was all he received. “Hey, come on, I’m on the spot here. I can do it again, anyway, no problem—you ever heard of Andrew ‘8-Ball’ Alcatraz?”

                “Uh... no. Nothing comes to mind. Who’s that?”

                “ _What_? You been livin’ under a rock or somethin’? Where are you even from?”

                “Not _here_ , at least,” you spoke through your food.

                “Sorry, sorry. Ok, fine—ask _anyone_  around here and they’ll tell you about him, like the time he raided the Treasure Island Hotel and stole all the playing cards from its casino—or a completely separate example when he got arrested for selling rigged card decks on the black market and slugged a cop in the face to escape after gettin’ his handcuffs off with only his mouth and a Q-tip.” He gesticulated in abundance, almost knocking over his glass of water in the process. “And, just remember the kicker: all that was _me_! So, hey, y’know, lemme know if you need any tips on startin’ over, ‘Doe’. If that _is_ your real name.”

                “Hah, okay, ‘ _Andrew_ ’.” His nose crumpled.

                “Yeesh, don’t actually call me that. S’weird.”

                “What? But you seemed so proud of it a second ago, what changed?”

                “Uh,” he laboured over the thought, weighing up the word count the explanation would require versus the energy he had to tell it. “Too much, bud. I prefer bein’ called Stan now, it’s who I am, and anyway—this is gettin’ a little too heavy for a quick lunch.” He paused to pick up his burger and held it towards his mouth, speaking before taking a gargantuan bite, “What brought _you_ to Vegas then?”

                “Mm... it’s my birthday—”

                “Oh, shit, happy birthday!”

                “—in 3 days.”

                “H... Happy pre-birthday,” he repeated, voice wearier. “Why’re you spendin’ your time on me and not—?”

                “I came with friends a few days ago, but they had to go back home. Various problems. But it’s OK, I’m enjoying Vegas still. Hard not to!” The positivity with which you made that statement faltered the moment it left you. He wasn’t always the most perceptive, or sympathetic, or even thoughtful to strangers, but Stan knew loneliness. He also knew that distraction was a fantastic cure for the blues, especially when both parties seemed reluctant to dig into their _feelings,_ the most dreaded of topics.

                “What’s your birthday wish then?” He spoke with a laidback tone, not looking up from his food. “If you could get anythin’ this time around, what would it be?”

                “Anything?”

                “ _Anything_. Hit me.”

                “Well... actually, when they were here, my friends and I had kind of... a sort of plan to—” Your voice trailed off. You fidgeted your hands and failed entirely to make eye-contact, even when he made the effort to lift his head.

                “Spit it out, what is it? You thinking of committing a crime or something? ‘Cause we’ve already established that I’m kind of exempt from judgin’ you on that if that’s the thing.”

                “As cool as that would be, no... I mean, maybe. We can do that too.” Stan laughed, leaning one elbow ahead of him on the table. “They were going to help me get—”

                “Get...?”

                “L... Dates. A... A date.” You sank into your seat, hand hovering over your forehead as if it would stop the sound short from escaping the table. “And... laid.”

                “Oho, so _that’s_ your game, huh? Well, shit, I can help you with that.” You sat bolt upright. “I’ll be your wingman! I might not... be the Casanova I used to be—I mean, no, I’m _great_! I can talk you up to people and get their attention on ya, ‘n’ then you just gotta go in for the kill. Sound good?”

                “Wh—Uh, are you serious?” He gave his most serious expression, hand held with sincerity across his chest. “But you’re on vacation too—”

                “Eh, I’ve done what I came for. Better not do any more gambling in case I screw myself over. It’ll be a good distraction, keep me busy and _you_ out of trouble.” He cleared his throat, “Or… _in_ it. Either way, you’re gonna get some before you gotta kick off for home. I’m not about to let you leave without gettin’ your wish.”

                “I mean... okay, it’s worth a shot? Well. Thank you, Stan.” Your head felt thick with nerves, as if the amount of blood that swelled within it would make it burst, and you attempted to remedy that with a tepid sip of water.

                “You wanna meet up this evening and give it a shot? See what sucker—uh, people of _excellent taste_ we can reel in?”

                “Actually, tonight—I can’t tonight, I have a show I’m going to see. I have extra tickets, since... you know.” You shrugged, placing your glass down. “So you can come too if you’d like to?”

                “Woah, score! What kind of show is it? You know what, I don’t even care, it’s been _years_  since I—” He jolted himself back in his chair, hands hovering against the edge of the table. “Wait. Where’s it at?”

                “Uh... the Excalibur H—”

                “Can’t. Banned.”

                “When?”

                “Yesterday.”

You shook your head, an amused smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “I don’t think it’s your kind of show anyway. Maybe we can see something tomorrow? If it’s been a while, you should see something nice while you’re here.”

                “Nice like...?”

                “I don’t know, strippers?”

                “But what would you be seeing?”

                “Strippers.”

                “Can’t argue with that.” 

With the meal completed, you stood, Stan tossing an inexact amount of cash to the middle of the table before holding the door for you on the way out. The heat of the outside world came in an unwelcome flood. You both were left fanning yourselves while traipsing along the strip as he spoke of his business, of Oregon, and how he and his beloved shack were the cornerstone of his community. His speech was an odd blend of contradictions and absurdities, but the infatuated tone he spoke with when referring to his work and the revenue it brought him carried a softness in his mannerisms that you couldn’t hold off from smiling at. He spoke of his neighbours and townsfolk far less favourably, but his choice of words made you laugh; he would watch you out of the corner of his eye when you did, when you wrinkled the crest of your nose and the creases from joyous years on either side of your mouth deepened because of him.

On the way to the ticket booth, you stopped off at a dinky stall tucked between two grander buildings to grab a couple of drinks—yours bright blue and his a startling shade of yellow—out of cups resembling a saxophone and a significantly buxom woman’s chest respectively. Through nursing them, the tip of each straw held between parched lips, the rest of the walk became easier. ‘Nothin’ like being able to drink alcohol on the street,’ he would observe, fingers curled around the waist of his plastic maiden. You snorted next to him and he grinned.

With minimal input from him, you selected the show while he took care of payment, handing you your ticket and pocketing his own. The formality of where and when to meet up was a simple task to overcome and you shared an amicable thumbs up in lieu of a handshake.

                “See ya tomorrow—I better get back to my room and pick out what I’m gonna wear,” he said with a crooked grin, tugging at the collar of his shirt on one side. “Hope you enjoy your mystery show tonight.”

                “Thank you. Have a good night!” You turned to leave, stopping before you could take your first step. Curiosity devoured you. If he was banned from almost everywhere, “Where are you staying, anyway?”

He puffed out his chest and a tremendous amount of pride overwhelmed his features.

                “The Treasure Island Hotel.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little closer, a little more tense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slapping the next part up now! This was one of my favs, and features one of my favourite shows I got to see in Vegas.
> 
> Really excited to post the next part, but I'll save it for tomorrow. Hope you like this one in the meantime! x

Standing with a slight hunch that creased his formal attire and hands shoved carelessly within his pockets, he remembered why he liked the night. It was cooler, for one, and he didn’t feel like dying on the spot as he had done during the day. The crowds were sparser. Likeminded denizens patrolled the streets and it made people-watching more of a treat. He could spot them a mile away, the thick from the cons, tourists from the veterans. He pinched his fingers around the temples of his glasses, adjusting their placement while turning from side to side.

It wasn’t as long of a wait, and seeing you approach made his expression lift and fall in quick succession. Rattling against the ground with plastic wheels was a suitcase that reached to your hip, hand tightly clasped around its protruding handle.

                “Hey—not… not leavin’ me hangin’, are you?” He joked with quavering solemnity. You shook your head, relieving him only enough to release a breath that had caught in his chest.

                “No, no…  I’m not going anywhere. I mean, I _am_ , my—OK, so my hotel apparently mixed something up or maybe we did, but apparently I wasn’t actually booked for any more days and it’s… a bit too expensive for just me since it was supposed to be me and three others.”

                “Oh, yeah, good call.”

                “Yeah, so… I guess I’ll find a cheaper hotel and stay there for the last few days. I was looking at—”

                “Nuts to that,” Stan interjected, folding his arms across his broad chest, “You’re not payin’ anything extra. Couldn’t live with myself if I let you do something like that. Save your money—you can stay in my room.”

                “Oh… wow.” You considered it, brows raised and hand squeezing tighter around the handle. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude on your space.”

                “It’s fine. I ended up in a room with two singles, makes sense the other one gets some use out of it, ‘n’ I trust ya not to take my shit while I’m sleeping.”

He received a curt nod, standing straighter and withholding a groan as his spine and back muscles complained with the movement. He was quick to replace any sourness on his face with an arrogant grin, hooking his thumbs underneath the lapels of his black jacket held taut over his frame with a clean, white shirt underneath. A thin bow under the collar in a shade of maroon added a solemn pop of colour, save his usual brown shoes that matched the depth in his eyes. You seemed to appreciate it. You didn’t need to know it was the nicest outfit he owned, or that they were technically his work clothes.

Inside the building was dimly lit, musty and filled with the warmth of countless other bodies bustling among themselves and filling the room with imperceptible conversation. You both fished your tickets out of your respective pockets, followed the directions to your seats and settled into them, Stan scanning over the details on the paper while you slipped your suitcase under the seat.

                “Zombie Burlesque, huh?” He barely remembered the time you spent deciding. He hadn’t been paying attention at the time, and he didn’t care to blame himself when there had been booze present. He flipped the ticket over in his hand, inspecting it from all sides. “I don’t really know what to expect, but then again it seems kind of self-explanatory.”

                “It is what it says it is really,” you smoothed your hands over your thighs until your palms stopped at the knees, “it’s good though, you’ll like it.”

                “You’ve seen it before?”

He caught a glimpse of you nodding before the lights dimmed further into complete penumbra, and he squeezed his eyelids and blinked to adjust. An overhead spotlight hummed and shot into life, beaming onto the stage at the front of the room.

Despite his habitual pessimism, he was relieved to find himself having a good time.  The humour was decent. On more than one occasion, he bellowed with laughter with his head rolled back while you resounded next to him with a laugh that would sporadically build into a rollicking cackle. The highlight, however, caught his attention with greater success. He would expect nothing less from Vegas of all places: the proceedings were cut up into sections, each actress with her own segment to perform to the entire audience’s applause. His eyesight fixed on every popped hip, stout thigh, plump lip and profound chest (and behind when they were kind enough to turn), every slip of clothing until there was precious little left to cover the way certain body parts would continue to move even after she, herself, had stopped. Stan hooked his arm over the back of his chair, encroaching on yours, though you didn’t seem to mind or notice. He regarded you with a glance—in the darkness he could barely make out a redness beset across the upper part of your face, jaw clenched to an unusual tightness, at least for you.

He turned back to the stage to see _her_ , a particularly tall performer with flaxen hair that crawled down to the small of her back in tendrils, waxy heels at her feet and stockings held up to where her thigh met with her inner panty line. She mimed, she moved fluidly and sensually except in scripted moments of gaucherie, and her torso moved with skilled twists to spin the tassels cascading from each breast. He wanted to feel captured, immersed as was intended, but his attention was divided between the action and the receiver sitting next to him, beginning to glisten with sweat on your brow in the reflected light.

Punctuated with a bow, her portion ended and the curtains closed. The remainder of the acts that followed were similar but of incomparable grandeur, and he would peek at you to gauge your reaction, which never quite reached the same intensity. It ended, you applauded, and the house lights rose to its usual though inadequate brightness.

                “What did you think?” You turned to him, smile innocuous with a stretch of your arms ahead of you. He cocked a brow at your display, rolling his head to one side with a loud crack before shaking it off.

                 “Loved it. Best I’ve seen in years,” he withdrew his arm back to his side, settling it onto the armrest between you. “I’d ask you the same but it looked like you enjoyed it more than enough.”

                “What?” You ducked your head down into your shoulders.

                “You know—uh, I forget her stage name,” he snapped his fingers in recollection, brows knitted with concentration. “The, uh, the blond one.”

                “Oh.”

                “Mmhm.”

                “I just… she was my favourite.” His laugh was loud and sudden, almost making you leap out of your seat and turning a few heads as crowds around you were standing to leave in the meantime. He wriggled back into the padded frame of his seat.

                “What d’ya think her real name is? You ever think about that kinda thing?”

                “I don’t know, uh… Casey? Cindy?”

                “Maybe a name that _doesn’t_ start with C?”

You gave a thin smile at that, “Oh, yeah, OK, _Stan, Steve, Stetson—_ ”

                “And _Andrew_.”

                “Alright. Do you want to go home now, _Andrew_?”

                “Sure.” He jabbed his index finger at you with a pointed glower behind it, “And stop callin’ me that.”

You rose from your seat first, patting down the alignment of your trousers before straightening to loosen the cloth of your shirt with a quick tug at the collar. The aisle next to you had emptied, giving ample room to wander along the row of seats on either side with your suitcase beside you until you reached the end and, alarmed at the lack of sound, you turned.

He was arched, hands braced against the arm rests, gritted teeth and squeezed brows with white knuckles on both hands until he released with a low grumble. Without much pause, he did the same again. You approached with a cautious gait.

                “Are you OK?” He didn’t so much as raise his head. “Do you need help?”

                “ _No._ ” 

You weren’t certain which question that answered. Only one more attempt had his arms go limp in defeat on either side of him. There was a brief exchange of squabbling before you had his upper arm clasped between your hands, pulling him up from his seat and then allowing for a small portion of his weight to rest on your shoulders with his arm slung over it. You stumbled, which he stifled a laugh at the moment it burst out, and he wound down to a quiet mutter with his nose wrinkled, expression softening.

                “You,” he stopped, swallowing. It took a moment longer for him to find a way to continue, “You smell like the ocean.” Uncertainty curved your brows in response, and he forgave you for not knowing what to say—neither had expected to be in the proximity needed to exchange senses in such a way. Regardless, he felt the spark of reminiscence consume him, lighting him up, sparking memories of crisp waves edged with pearls of foam, saltwater, oak panels starting to rot, and home. You thanked him. On the way to the outdoors, he tried not to forget his footing.

He chose his words carefully on the walk back to his hotel, interspersed between barked directions, as he explained that his hindrances were _not_  a matter of age—though he would refuse to use that word as well—and was because of the injuries he had sustained from his various exploits since the moment he arrived. His lower back swelled with a dull ache from where it had hit the ground, the upper portion twinging from being hassled, wrangled and tossed away from places he had acted illicitly by people he held nothing but disdain for. He used the opportunity to its fullest to elaborate on his prowess as a conman as well as the grace with which he performed his crimes, sprinkling in the inner details of the trade that only a dedicated connoisseur would know, omitting years’ worth of cut corners and botched jobs.

At the door to his room, he held himself up off of you long enough to insert his key card into the slot and swing open the door with an unruly shove that thumped it against the adjacent wall. Assuring you that he _was_ , in fact, OK to stand on his own, you crept inside to take in the interior. 

A lot of gold. Painted details, shimmering pillowcases and throws with surrounding bronzed walls and curtains and a carpet in a lighter shade demonstrated the severity of the ‘treasure’ aesthetic its name denoted. In spite of its opulence, the room had been tainted with the mess of its inhabitant, strewn with clothes both used and new. Sparse drink cans littered the floor. An apology for the disorder and a grunt from behind you brought the present back to your attention and you turned: in the time you had spent consuming the environment, Stan had unhooked the singular clasp at the stomach of his jacket that left it hung open; the ribbon around his neck had been unravelled, tumbling down either side of his chest with the top few buttons of his dress shirt popped open to unveil it, necklace and hair included; and a girdle hung from his grasp before it was carelessly tossed away, landing without ceremony on the ground. So _that’s_ where his gut had gone.

He held his palms at the small of his back, taking a seat at the end of his bed which dipped underneath him. Glancing up a second later, he spotted you watching him, and his expression screwed into one of irked cynicism.

                “What?”

                “Sorry, uh... are you—do you want me to rub your back?”

                “Why?”

                “Because you’re in pain?”

                “So?”

                “I like giving massages and it might help?”

                “Are we seriously still talking in questions?” Tense fingers rubbed the crease on his brow, eyes pinched shut until he peeked across the room to see that all humour had left you. “Sorry. I’m—yeah. I guess that’d be nice.”

You nodded, quick and firm, while he shrugged off his jacket. He had reeled his arm back to throw it wherever it chose to land before deciding on folding it over his arm and placing it aside, flattened and as pristine as a decades-old jacket could be.

                “Now don’t get excited,” he rolled his shoulders back before crawling across the length of his bed, “I’m keeping my shirt on. Hate to disappoint.”

You approached the bed’s edge, clapping your hands to your face. “Oh _no_! What am I going to do now?” 

                “Keep it to your imagination. They don’t call me Mr. Mystery for nothin’.”

There was some hesitation from you after he lay himself down flat, taking a moment to adjust the gold chain that dug into him before he could correct its placement and removing his glasses to place them on the bedside table. He afforded you some patience, however, and after some time you clambered onto the bed, jostling it in the process, and settled with your bottom on top of his and your knees on either side of his torso. It became clear how expansive he was from that vantage, broad and filling to the extent that the width of the bed could fit him and little else. Your hands flattened onto the small of his back, gentle and tepid, before rolling your thumbs in tight circles on either side of where his spine aligned. His back resisted. It was tough, like a piece of flank steak begging to be tenderised, so you picked up in fervour. In doing so, you found that his noises from beneath you, muffled by the sheets and his arms, became louder and lengthier. The fabric bundled in ample creases against your fingers. You swallowed, thick and dry.

                “Is this OK? It doesn’t hurt, right?”

                “It’s fine. Just sore there.” His shoulders tensed, pronouncing the blades through the material of his crystalline shirt. “You can go harder than that, I can take it.”

You nodded from above him and pressed in with hard strokes and rolls of your hands to smooth the knots embedded in muscle. As you got deeper, he became louder with low noises that snarled in the back of his throat, some voluntary and some very much not, drawn out of him when troublesome areas were tended to.

At that pace and level of exertion, you continued, moving up the spine in inches and then curving the palm of your hands over his shoulder blades to push underneath. An expressly loud groan, combined with a shove with the heel of your hands, and you pulled away. You sighed.

                “Sorry,” you spoke between shallow pants, “My hands are getting tired.”

                “Man, it was just gettin’ good too. Thanks for trying though.”

He leaned up on his elbows with a pained sound lurching from him, guilt dropping into your stomach like a 50 pound weight. Your hand shot to his side, making his skin jump and his head whip around as far as it could.

                “Wait,” you climbed off him and rushed across the room, tugging your suitcase open and rummaging through it. “Please don’t... don’t judge me or anything, but I have something that might help.”

                “Oh?” He blinked through the haze ahead of him. You tore various items from the case before grabbing the necessary item, holding it steady for him to see.

Although his eyesight wasn’t in its prime—truthfully it never had been great—he could see the bulbous top, sloped shaft and cable tumbling to the floor in all its pitch-black resplendence. He could also see the trepidation in your body language, expression riddled with unease.

                “...so what? It’s a body massager, good for muscles ‘n’ whatever, like a massage chair. Why would I judge you for that?”

                “ _...Right_. I don’t know,” you released a deep exhale. “Still, it should feel... it should work.”

Once plugged into the closest available wall socket, you placed it on the bedding in order to retrieve a small hand towel from the bathroom. He watched the device with a focused stare in your absence, wary that it might attack him, and fixed his attention on the cloth in your hands when you returned.

                “What’s that for?”

                “It,” you swallowed again, “It can be kind of intense, so just in case, it might be good to have a buffer.”

He gave an uncommitted shrug before positioning himself back down. Held in your grasp, _it_  clicked on, filling the room with a low buzzing sound which became muted as you held it to the towel, then to the space between his shoulders.

                “More,” it almost fell from your hand as he spoke the moment it came into contact with him. You rolled your thumb across the notch to ramp up the power and he began to arch his back into its silicone head. Once it had reached its maximum, you rolled it across him, along the shoulders and down to press into the meat just above the belt of his trousers. It undid him. His arms fell off each side of the bed and he became the human embodiment of a puddle, humming and musing pleasantries to himself with each muscle going lax while the vibrations coursed through his body.

                “That’s good, that’s so good,” he mumbled with a breathless laugh, pillows swallowing and elating him at the same time; he could be levitating for all he was concerned, numb and free of all weight. His vocals jittered when it passed over his thoracic curve, persuading a tender laugh from you and yet another from him. “ _Ohhhh myyyyyy goooooooood.”_

Click. Silence.

You withdrew. Pride swelled within you and you wished you could spin the massager in your hand, skill and dexterity permitting, then blow over the tip like the barrel of a gun pluming with smoke, and you would have done just that if you knew you wouldn’t drop it on him. You patted him instead, on the lower portion of his leg, and he failed to move in inch.

                “Thank you,” his voice droned, weary and light, and the amount of honesty that his tone reflected sounded nothing like him. With time, he peeled himself off the bed and stretched, bulging the muscles along his arm as they curved behind his head. He yawned. He cleared his throat. He sighed a murky vapour and turned to you with eyelids weighted by sleepy requiescence. At the same time, you set the gadget warming your hand with its overworked inner electricals aside on top of the towel, moist with a thin layer of sweat. His smile infected you. Vernal but still asperous, his charm infected you too.

It was almost disappointing when he reached aside to replace the glasses along the ridge of his nose, though you disguised it well. You padded across to your side of the room to clear through your belongings, and he dragged his eyesight away from you to search through his own—picking up a small cardboard box from inside one of the customary dresser drawers. His hands slipped and it almost toppled to the floor when you cursed, hissing with a doleful stomp of your foot.

                “Woah, what’s wrong?”

                “I think I left my night shirt in my old hotel room.”

                “How’d you manage that?”

                “I put it under my pillow.” You slumped, beaten, while he chuckled with the box passed to balance in his right hand, the other positioned at his hip.

                “Can’t you just wear something else?”

                “I like wearing big shirts in bed.” Hardly a moment later, your head jolted forward and eyes struck open as something soft collided with you, rippling over to cover your eyes. You collected it into your hands, ruffling your hair with static in the motion, and stared down at another of his bright, patterned, garish Aloha shirts.

                “Wear one of mine. It’ll be big enough on you—and it’s  _clean_ , promise.”

                “Thank... thank you. I’ll go over and see if they still have mine tomorrow.” With it wound over your elbow, you retreated to the bathroom while he, in the meantime, switched to his hoary undershirt and slipped out of his trousers and grey socks, with their garters, to remain in turquoise pinstripe boxer shorts.

                “Check this shit out,” you stood in all your comparatively diminutive stature in the bathroom doorway with your arms outstretched, the armholes forming large hoops around your shoulders that barely gratified skin, the bottom reaching down to the midst of your thigh with nothing below (but a pair of underwear underneath, not that they were visible), and the collar, despite being buttoned to its highest point, hooped down like a V-neck worn down by years of use. You stood with the delight of a comedian completing their first set, waiting for the reaction to their punchline with an agape smile. He laughed, sat, patted his gut and laughed some more.

                “What’s this?” You pointed to the box with dents and creases in its flimsy cardboard exterior formerly held in his hands and now resting expectantly on top of your otherwise undisturbed bed. Approaching it, you folded the top over to peek inside. A sweet sight and smell met with you. A spiral of chocolate crowned dark sponge underneath, dotted with white flakes and dusted with tinted cocoa in its ridges.

                “For your birthday, s’not a decent birthday without cake. I, uh, hope it’s disgustingly sweet enough for ya.”

                “But my birthday isn’t for another 2 days, Stan.” He scratched at the side of his neck, then smoothed his hand across his face to cover his mouth and chin while staring aside.

                “Well... it’s hot out, you know, I didn’t want it to spoil—”

                “You could have put it in the mini-fridge?”

                “ _Just take the damn cake_.” He threw his bedsheets open, dipping his feet inside before squirming the rest of the way in and laying on his back with the sheets pulled halfway up his torso. At the same time, you placed the box aside to get into yours, stopping with one leg outstretched when he spoke up again,

                “Hey, I never asked how your night went last night.” He tilted his head to look towards you from his pillow, “Was it any good?”

You nodded, curt, and moved back to your suitcase to unzip the side compartment on the upper portion, probing inside before pushing an item into his hands. He blinked down at it, resting his chin on his chest, glasses drooping down his nose. ‘See for yourself’ was all you said, smile unfailing and confident—it was something you wouldn’t admit that you had looked at habitually since you got it, and the opportunity to show someone else was something you had ached to do.

Any words or noises were forced back down his throat and into the deepest corner of his belly. His eyes flicked over the photo: to the garter pinching the flesh of your thigh, a flicker of a memory from the first night he saw you; to gold chains over each bare shoulder that attached to red cloth, tight to every inch of skin it coiled around; to dangling legs and _heels_ , oh he missed seeing those, digging into the thigh of one burly, waxy gentleman—tan and the picture of a wet dream for the masses, he assumed—another underneath you with your bottom cradled into his lap, yet another to your right, and three more standing behind. His focus remained on your face, the absolute joy, before he looked back to you in the present where such joy endured. His stomach twisted with the words he swallowed, confliction in his ribs and written on his forehead until he beamed back at you.

                “Point taken,” he gulped, placing it on the table separating each bed. “Glad I didn’t go for that one. You have a favourite this time too?”

                “Yeah, the guy I’m sitting on.” Back to your side of the room, you clambered into the sheets and settled on your side, facing him.

                “Any guesses as to what _his_ name is?”

                “…Cameron, Cody, Christopher—”

                “Ha ha. Any real guesses?”

                “Not sure, but I saw him a few years ago, too.” You recollected the way the stubble on his cheek had tickled you when you took a personal photo outside the show area. A few feet away, Stan scratched at his. He yawned too loud to be convincing and reached across to turn off the lamp filling the room with its remaining lazy glow.

                “I’m gonna pass out. Goodnight, Doe.”

                “Goodnight.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan's a narsty boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ฅ(ʘ̥ꀾʘ̥)ฅ Fun times with Mr. Pines! And also a little sad. He definitely needs to unwind.

Light exploded overhead, stippling with dancing specks of kindled dust. Another joined it, then another, and another, all aimed at the same spot that cast a multitude of shadows. He blinked at it and the table ahead of him, fit for one, his knees bumping to the wooden leg at the centre underneath. A woman. A waitress, one he recognised, carried a tray of champagne flutes, placing one square ahead of him. He never saw her again.

Holding his hands in front of his face, he twisted them, inspecting them, front and back, tight skin and sinew, fresh knuckles and veins only beginning to obtrude. He picked up the glass. Now a pint glass, he watched himself stare back. It almost dropped and shattered. His 20 year old face stared, struck with shock.

Below, a white shirt clung over his pectorals, a hint of dark hair underneath and bellybutton a small dimple in the fabric. His jaw was just as sturdy, he had always been fond of that, and his chin completed its robust angularity. He was devoid of scruff and stubble—smooth as he had been born—and his arms carried the tone he would subsequently lose in the years that followed.

Thick brows rose, rich and brown though not unkempt, spotting the light fill with red. You smiled. Eyes in a colour he couldn’t comprehend looked at him and only him. Only he existed. You slipped your hand under the hem of your skirt to pull it aside, snapping your garter with your thumb hooked underneath, audible against raw skin. Heels clacked against the wooden flooring below. You floated, up and towards him, light dedicated to your body with shadows under every feature, nose, chin, breast. You stood ahead of him and drowned him with the smell of salt, of water, and he felt it across his cheeks and forehead. He was almost swept away. With his eyes closed, he saw cobalt, azure, pine and the stillness of mint and moss, edged with white frays and cracks of foam. He swam with thoughts of the coast. Of warm sand, grit under his feet and in the bed of his nails.

He was in your place. His eyes opened. Once empty aside from his stocky form, the room was filled, packed and suffocating. He was alone. You sat upon him, suddenly, bottom cradled in his lap and your heels digging into the thigh of another one, another of him, sitting to the side. He was older by a few years. To his other side, he was older still, and behind stood three more, aged 30, 35 and 40. Sad, troubled, content. Shambles, patchwork, upstanding. Collectively crooked.

Perched on him, you turned back to breathe him in, to lean and exhale the scent of saline and saccharine. You laughed. Standing, walking backwards, you sat in his seat.

Only one of him lasted. He looked to his hands, worn, aching, rough, and rippled with experience and guilt. He greyed. His stomach plummeted, attempting to cover it miserably with thick arms and shaking fingers, and you laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and

Even though he was startled, Stan kept his head planted to the pillow underneath him, sore eyes fired open to stare into the blank ceiling. His head and stomach thrummed with an unpleasantness he couldn’t pinpoint. Turning, with his body stilled and arms rigid, he saw your empty bed with its sheets folded open to one side.

You must’ve gone to get your shirt. Light creeped in gullies surrounding the curtain and softly through its threads. He prepared himself for the usual aches, reminded with warmth on his cheeks of the previous night when he found they weren’t there as he curled his body over, able to sit up with relative ease. He retrieved his glasses, positioning them only to knock them up to his forehead with his knuckle to rub one eye with his fist, standing to turn the corner. He checked the bathroom—empty. You _must’ve_  gone to get your shirt. Your suitcase was still there.

Back at the main room’s centre, he cleared the floor of his various pieces of clothing, cans, bottles, loose change which he could hardly believe was his if it was out of his grasp and pocket, and put them where they needed to be. He began to make his bed in his reluctant, listless way, and saw _it_ , sitting, threatening, while he tucked the fitted sheet back under the mattress.

                “You’re nuts if you think I don’t know what this is for,” he spoke with a snicker and shake of his head, picking it up. The silicone exterior dulled, puckered fake leather twined around the handle, and his thumb teased over the rubber notch as if it were something else. His eyesight trailed down the cable, through every hoop and turn until it reached the wall where it remained connected and charged.

With brevity, he searched the room with glances from his standpoint before rolling his thumb, switching it on, low vibrations beginning to rumble in his hand. He then reached back with it to drive its head against his shoulder. Exhaling through his nose with a tight whine, he rolled it across, side to side, between his shoulder blades and as far down his back as he could reach. Curious, he brought it back to his front, first holding the pulsating top to his wrist to feel it surge through him. Slowly, he then brought it to his stomach.

                “Not that I’ve done it in a while,” he searched the room one last time out of habit. It would be funny. Assured though not entirely, he sucked in a breath, hand steady, and lowered it down.

His hips yanked back, tearing the device away with an undignified yelp clamped in his teeth. He switched it off.

                “ _Woah woah woah woah woah_ —” Another breath left him, rushed and warm while his hand planted to the side of his face, laughing into his palm as it wiped across his chin. “Intense is _right_ , holy shit. I can’t do that.” Looking to where it had been, his heartrate built up to a heavy drub, hand outstretched without thought to the plump white towel of prickled cotton that once supported it.

                “I shouldn’t,” it flopped against his hand when he picked it up.

                “I shouldn’t,” he placed it over his crotch, cradling the head of the device into its core.

                “I shouldn’t.” It switched on.

The ragged breath that jutted out of him was guttural and embarrassing, hips keening in chase of the reverberations diluted through the layers between it and his cock. It tickled more than anything, a pleasantly odd sensation against his limpness, beginning to thicken with pleasant thoughts. Women in suits. Women on the beach, in suits. In swimsuits. Hands groping with gross curiosity across his chest and tangled into his bristled hair there, telling him that they wanted him. Telling him that they loved him. He pressed it in, harder, thumb passing over the notch to make it more vivid so his imagination could catch up.

His legs began to tremble, stepping backwards once, then twice more until his calves met with the edge of the bed and he flopped down in submission, implement still forced into the heat of his lap. No longer soft, he began to ache and throb with excess blood, tingling and twitching in his clothes. His forehead and chin dripped with sweat. He thought of one on each side of him, heck, he had two arms, and they held him with unquestionable reverence. Trails of kisses travelled up to his shoulders until they pressed in with red lips on either side of his face, leaving behind a crimson remnant of their adulation on each cheek.

One leg bounced to his left, heel of his foot padding against the carpet. His knuckles tensed and dug into his thigh. He cursed, out loud, flipping his head to check the door as still as it ever was, though he didn’t stop or move despite having his back to it due to entire lack of planning. He brought the vibrations near to their maximum, thinking of strippers and tassels and corsets and the whips they cracked just for the showmanship of it. He thought of blond hair in curls and vines, pouted lips and the pink on _your_ face when he caught you looking at it.

He thought of the red of your lips and the red on your cheeks and the red on your eyeshadow when you chose to wear it. He thought of the red on your thighs and chest and shoulders that cocooned over black lace. He thought of your smell and hair, your voice when it was low and excitement when it was high. He turned his head, hair in slickened tresses across his brow, and held open the hand without use with shaken fingers. They coiled into a fist, squeezed, released, then repeated.

_I shouldn’t._

He picked up the photo. A moan erupted from him, fingertips squeezing with a mix of ardour and oil, pulse thickening between his legs. The crease in his brow deepened when he maneuvered the machine, buzzing out loud, to encroach on the tender pith of his balls underneath the rigid shaft, out of sight in a vague mass of sensitivity. His throat stung. You were about to speak, the version in his head being aided by the sight in his hand, mouth parting to tell him something. His back arched forward, bringing it closer to his face, lower lip caught between his teeth with choppy breaths leaking in gushes between them. His hands began to quake with such velocity that the device slipped, and in correcting its placement, he found a better spot to tease and let his jaw tighten then slack with mouth ajar to groan. You smiled to him, holding your hands around his face, suspended in the air, his skin tickling with anticipation. You were about to tell him when he doubled over, wrinkling the picture with tight fingers and his eyes forced shut.

His cock throbbed with every pump of cum that flooded through his boxers and stained into the towel, cursing constant, _fuck fuck fuck fuck fffffffuck_ —his voice shook and broke midway, and he began to pant. Slowing, he rolled the vibrator into silence when his cock reached hypersensitivity, thigh muscles twitching on either side. He threw it with some care to the ground. The photo, he placed back where it had been with little regard, too stricken with guilt to look at your jovial expression and have you look back.

Wound down with his sweat beginning to cool, he peeled the towel away from him, face crumbled at the sight underneath. The white was ruined. His cum reflected light in a ghastly sheen and the sheer fabric of his clothing clung to his cock in a wet patch like cling film over preserved meat. His undershirt was much the same, wet patches under each arm and just above his stomach, spread across his chest. He pulled it off over his head and stood to waddle to the bathroom, disgusted in more ways than one.

Then he heard the door.

Had anyone else been in the room with him or could testify to his previous experiences of being in similar panicked situations, they would be amazed at how fast the man could move when he had to. He had his boxers around his ankles when the noise first registered, and somewhere in his head, not untapped but often unused, he switched to action in an instant. He kicked his underwear aside, picked them up, folded them so the stain remained tucked at the centre and then threw them into his suitcase. While there, he grabbed new ones and yanked them on so fast he had to tighten his mouth to stop from yowling. Then, he turned to grab the towel, at which point he heard what he _knew_ was the sound of a key card in the door.

He turned his head. To the door. To the towel. To the door again and then the room as a whole. The dresser. The TV.

He bolted towards the curtains, ripped them open and threw the towel out of the window.

Yanking the curtains closed without caring to where the cloth had landed, he leapt across the floor to put the vibrator back where you had last seen it—turning it in his hand to check for signs of moisture or uncleanliness, of which there were none—and he got back into bed with his eyes nestled shut as you padded safe and unaware into the heart of the room.

He hoped you wouldn’t notice how quick his breathing was, not even close to resembling the deep kind of breathing one settles into when asleep. He hoped you wouldn’t notice anything else off in the room since you left it, whenever it was that you had snuck out, taking his key card with you. He was proud of that. If you had taken it out of his wallet, even better. Even though his heart was pounding so loud and so hard that it might beat through the bedsheets covering him, he peeked one eye open across at you and noticed with fondness that you were still wearing his shirt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension, tension, fun and tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to have finished this part, because we're getting into it now.
> 
> I was probably going to say more, but I've forgotten! In any case, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thanks very very much for your support so far. x

The rest of the day dragged its feet by the hour. Stan feigned slumber for a further two (dozing off in the middle), stretched, greeted you with a lax smile and heavy eyelids and meandered to the bathroom to take a shower his skin had been crawling for. 

Dressed and returned, you discussed the day and its intents. Each party was relieved to discover that neither wanted to do anything.

Room service brought a late lunch after heated deliberation as to what to order, leading to you faking his voice over the phone with minimal success and him holding his hand over his mouth to keep his laughter from escaping.

You ate, chatting in-between bites, cleaned up and swapped pillows. He lay with his feet propped up on one with two rolled behind him to support his back, while you held a single pillow below your chest, laying on your stomach the opposite end. Conversation was its usual and led to him telling stories that wafted between each other in a concoction of intertwining memories, the more recent of which being the most coherent.

                “What did you _do_?”

                “Now that’s a loaded question,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “In particular I think they may not have liked the extra cards I had up my sleeves. It would have worked if the damn things hadn’t bent and fallen out. S’what I get for using cheap paper.”

                “You _made_ them? Why not just use another official deck or something?”

                “Hey, now, I don’t tell you how to do your job.”

                “Well... Do you want to try going back? I could use a walk. It’s late, so it shouldn’t be so hot out either.” You rested your chin to the top of the pillow, kicking your legs in mid-air behind you, “You can show me how Stan sneaks his way back in under false pretences.”

He stared down at his hands, fingers knotted together where they sat atop his stomach, lifting with each breath. “I don’t know... I was kinda enjoying _sitting_.”

                “Please?”

He looked towards you.

                “...ugh, alright. But _only_ for the show of it.”

                “Of course.”

Lifting himself from his seat, he groaned with heavily amplified annoyance and cracked his knuckles ahead of him with his arms outstretched. He then went to his suitcase, bending over it with one hand at the knee and the other peeling it open to skim inside. From the bottom, he tugged out a large, black briefcase, settling it onto his mattress to unhook the metal clasps and flip it open.

                “This is an art, y’know,” he grinned while watching you obliquely.

                “I don’t doubt it.”

                “You better take notes, right? Seeing how you’re learning from an _absolute legend_. This is the shit they don’t teach ya.” He turned to you with one hand perched to his hip before you could respond, “So let’s start with you. Who are you gonna be?”

                “Wait, why do I have to have a different identity? I’m not banned from Excalibur—”

                “Because if you get banned while we’re there _today_ , you might still want to go back _tomorrow_ as yourself.” His brow creased. “And it’s _fun_.”

                “Alright, alright. So... I mean, what do I start with?”

                “You need a name and a story. Doesn’t have to be too in-depth, simpler the better really. Makes it easier to remember.” He tapped his temple with his index finger before dropping his arm to his side.

                “Ah, uh...” A long pause hung between you. “I can’t think of anything at the moment.”

                “Hey now, you’re sittin’ in front of the master of identities and you’re intimidated, I get it, I get it. Then how ‘bout we focus on how you want to look and then we can decide on a persona based on that?”

                “Sounds good to me.”

Reaching back inside his case, he pulled out a smaller one, bringing it to your side. It clicked open against his fingernail hooked under the plastic lid, and he turned his head to you while you positioned yourself with your legs dangling over the edge of the bed.

                “What colour hair d’ya want?”

                “Ooo... what have you got?” Excitement built up in your stomach and he laughed at the sight of your juvenile enthusiasm.

                “I’ve got enough. But let’s not go crazy here, if we’re doin’ this we’re _not_  bringing IDs. We can’t get caught with our real ones and it’s a little too late in the game to get fake ones.” Giving you a once over, he ran one hand under his chin, “We need to make you look old—older.”

                “Let’s go with grey then.”

                “You sure?”

Your fists pumped down on either side of your lap into the bolstered sheets. “ _Make me grey._ ”

With a firm nod, Stan plucked a rectangular piece of chalk the colour of steel from the small case and held it forward between index finger and thumb. He swiped it across the hair on the side of your head, leaving streaks of colour in a startling shade before moving to the top. At the same time, you sat rigid, eyes focused forward on his chest and stomach as he stood near you, shutting the space whenever he reached around to trace the chalk over the back of your head. Never enough to touch, though your skin prickled at the thought. After an indeterminate amount of time, he stood back, reflecting on his work. He held his hands around either side of your head about an inch away. Stopping, he swallowed, and stood back.

                “You... uh, ah, you need to... use your hands to blend it in. So... do that.” Replacing the stick back in its place, he patted away the silver traces on his fingertips that left small clouds of dust in the air while you abided his orders, smoothing the colour to a more realistic finish. He turned his head from side to side, tapping at his lip, deliberating until epiphany struck. He collected a worn down white piece from the box and swiped it in two long strokes across the hair at your forehead. “There. Ya got a white streak for flair—couldn’t get a better job unless you went to, I don’t know, a professional. But I did it for _free_.”

                “Thank y—”

                “So, your face.” Your brows tensed.

                “What about it?”

                “What do you want to _do_ with it?”

                “Um,” you held one hand to your cheek. The answer was instant, the beam from a 1,000 watt lighthouse bulb in your head, but the words far more troublesome to formulate and perform. You delayed.

                “It’s not a big deal or anything,” he cleared his throat, “I can do scars, we better do some wrinkles or somethin’, and—”

                “Can you give me stubble?” Your attention fixed up at him, cautious.

                “I mean, sure. That’d help with the whole age thing.” He rubbed his neck, and you folded your arms in front of you, “Want me to… I mean. Don’t make fun, but I can do some contouring— _I said don’t make fun._ ”

You spoke between quiet tufts of laughter through the nose, “I’m just surprised to hear you say _contouring_.”

                “I’m full of surprises, better get used to it now.”

Retrieving the obligatory utensils, of which he had a surprising amount and array and you bit your tongue at the chance to comment on it, he worked with dark shades under the cheekbones and on either side of the nose for emphasis, blending it without thought with his thumbs. Despite his carelessness to the procedure, he was gentle with each swipe and drag of his fingers across your skin, studious and enrapt while you held your breath. You exhaled deeply in the brief reprieve when he pulled away, sucking in another breath to hold tight in your chest when he went back in for contact. Grey across the chin, along your jaw which he pronounced with further depth and highlights wherever necessary, and finished off with richer eyebrows which he thickened again and again at your request.

He pulled back. He stepped back further, stubbing the back of his heels against the opposite bed. He moved around it to step so far back that he could duck into the bathroom and rinse the muddy blotches from his hands and return, seeing you again with freshened perspective.

                “Uh... Stan, how do I look?” Your hands wrung in your lap.

                “Not as handsome as me, _but_ … mm. You, uh… You get what I’m saying.” He forced his grin wider, “I did a great job is what that means.”

                “Great, _thanks_.” He shook his head at the acridity of your tone. “So what’s next?”

                “You go change into some other clothes and I’ll get to work on myself out here. I have some ideas I’m gonna play around with.”

While you searched through your luggage for the outfit you _knew_ for certain you had brought with you if you could only find it, Stan folded his girdle around his waist, tightening it with various slogged noises from his throat to the constriction he had become familiar with—tight enough to flatten but not enough to alter his breathing unmanageably—and tied it off with a small bow at the front. You dodged around him to the bathroom, and he swallowed the laugh threatening with a tickle when a delighted squeal from seeing yourself in the unflatteringly-lit mirror echoed inside.

Reconciling some time later, silence struck you both simultaneously.

You wore a white dress shirt, the most formal and business-like piece of clothing you thought to bring with you, sleeves folded up to wrap around where a black blazer dropped off at the elbow, padded shoulders and black trousers underneath adding in their simplicity. You had managed after some struggle to get your hair coiffed to the side and for it to stay there, white streak in a coil.

Across from you, Stan was in the process of stretching a set of black leather gloves across his fingers, outspread and wriggling to fit. The matching black suit was familiar, but the red tie was not, pulled tight at the neck and tucked into where the jacket lapels met together in replace of the thin bow that once hung there. His glasses were nowhere in sight. Most alarming, his hair was entirely brown.

                “Woah,” you stepped back. Eyes trailed over him from top to bottom—his hair now matched his shoes, perhaps the only pair he owned, and it dawned on you then how large they were.

                “Good woah?”

                “Yes,” your expression held a level of compassion he very nearly failed to recognise. “You were right.”

                “Of course I was.” He shimmied his tie with hands clasped around the knot, “About what?”

                “The handsome part—and being great at disguises.” A half-truth. He was still very much a resemblance of himself, though someone who knew him fleetingly would have trouble knowing and enough glances and shared space left you in a position to know the Stanley underneath. Thick-jawed, ample-armed, imposing-miened Stanley. In spite of that impression, he spent a moment with cheeks rubicund and ears beginning to pinken, swiping his thumb under his nose in hiding. He bobbed his shoulders.

                “I guess we’re in the same boat, then.” 

                “Right.” You answered before comprehension could strike. Silence returned afterwards, transience settling into his bones, and he clapped his hands together.

                “So, now, who are you?”

                “Oh yeah—” You aligned yourself straighter, “I’m a local celebrity—like, _really_ local, so no one can confirm or deny it. From a small town in Australia.” He snorted. “I work with fashion.”

                “Interesting. Well... that works. Bet you can guess who I’m gonna be based on that, then.”

                “My bodyguard?”

                “Bingo.”

                You put on the thickest accent you could muster, “ _Bingo dingo_.”

                “Oh god,” he held his hand to his stomach, wincing with one eye closed. “Do I have to do that too?”

                “Nah, just me, _mate_.”

                “I hate this.”

                “ _It’ll be groit_.”

                “Stop—” His opposite hand joined the other at his stomach, laughter teeming with tight puffs he tried his hardest to bottle. “Your name, Doe, what’s your name?”

                “Colbee... uh, Dick.”

                “Colbee _Dick_?”

                “Yep.” Nod. “And you?”

                “Saxon.”

                “Pendergast?”

                “Yep.” Nod.

You gathered what belongings you deemed safe to bring, of which there weren’t many, pulled on heels that you explained away as being a requirement for the height of your character, and approached the door until he stopped you with the warmth of his hand leaving a diffident trace on your shoulder. ‘There’s something we’re missing,’ he said, holding a glittering something in his right hand. You turned, he stood close, though not as close in reality as you thought he was until he shifted forward with his arms around your neck, perspicuous enough for you to see the detail of his lashes, the creases along the form of his eyes, and ingest the salt and sylvan smoke of his cologne. A moment later, after some tussling out of sight, he pulled away and stepped further to gauge the difference it had made.

Sitting at your collar with residual heat from his fingers was his chain with aureate disk hung at the ends, a medal with no achievement. He smiled, and you smiled back, then without skipping a beat, he gathered from his front pocket a pair of sunglasses that covered his eyes with black plates, gone before you could wish farewell to them.

                “Maybe I should have shaved, too,” he vocalised a minor thought without realising. You shook your head and allowed him passage to open the door.

                “No,” you trailed behind, “You look better with it.”

You observed on the way to Excalibur the way he walked, talking almost the entire time be it reflections on the environment or people or of his life, observed the way his arms barely swayed unless he was gesticulating and his legs rought in healthy strides. On occasion, you would forget the change in his appearance and startle in the glances at him, then become accustomed all over again to his sienna hair, not too rich to be implausible with his roots and scalp left intact.

Nerves in your abdomen bred and proliferated as you drew closer, nearing the hotel’s inordinate castle exterior, winding along the pathways that led you to the main casino. He was still. You breathed a shallow zephyr, received the nod of his head, and then entered.

And nothing happened. The hall, full and noisy, guzzled you to intangibility while you dispersed into crowds, quickly hidden within them. No one at the slot machines rose their head, the drunk remained drunk and stupid, and what few guards dotted the premises stood without notice where no outward trouble could be found.

                “I don’t know what I was expecting,” you leaned sideward to hush only to him.

                “Just wait,” he barely smiled, “We haven’t got started.” He continued forward to the cashier’s booth, exchanged a portion of his wealth for its amount in variegated chips and held a stack in each palm. “Ideally, we’re gonna see these multiply.”

                “I’m not—” You turned your head tightly, shoulders perched up towards your neck, “I don’t really want to play anything, I’m just kind of here.”

                “That’s alright.” Your apprehension went unsuccoured and he curled himself forward, breaking the stature of repute he had been holding himself to, allowing his expression to soften from its firm edges and glacial, dispassionate guise, “Hey, hey, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want. This is just for the hell of it.”

                “Right.”

                “Right. This’ll be the test for _me_ if I can do this without gettin’ caught.” He straightened, expression stern and stately as a rocky cliff’s surface and his voice contrived with authority, “I won’t let anything happen to you, _sir_. It’s my job.”

                “Thank you, Saxon,” you mimicked his tone. Together, afterward, you ambled through the sybarites and libertines until he reached a game he favoured and wedged himself in a blank spot at the table, instantly immersed in a game of poker. Peerless hands wreathed his chips and cards, flowing smooth as a cool water current when he capered them between his fingers, flicked them to the table with brazen disregard, and played.

You found yourself observing him again, from what you could see hidden away behind, out of sight from the strangers he treated like friends. Steady hands and perched shoulders, a solid wall of defence, rough hair on the back of his head that he scratched at on occasion, and his laugh, louder than anything else, making your sides tickle. When he was so enrapt in the game, he almost became who he was pretending to be—almost. That laugh gave him away. Shifting your weight back and forth, it became more evident over time that he had lost track of it, or was set on winning a certain amount, or both, and either way, he had barely checked on you in the meanwhile. In the brief moment he tore his attention away and glanced behind him, he saw your apathy and apprehension clear on your face and in the way you stood, and felt his stomach twist and his chest tighten. He pushed back, lifted himself, took the remainder of his chips and excused himself.

                “Miss me?” He stood beside you, grinning at the way you jumped when his hand squeezed limply at your upper arm. You flushed a shade of red, and he rolled his thumb against you before pulling away.

                “Yes, yeah.” You swallowed. “Though I could hear you from here. It’s like you never left.” You shared a look of supercilious contentedness between you, Stan beginning to stare down at his feet, silent, and you were going to question it when he revived and spoke quietly closer to your ear.

                “Listen, I’m…” His hand hovered nearby, eager but too withdrawn to touch, “I’m sorry if you’re not having a good time. If I got carried away, you can tell me, we can go home if you… don’t want to be here.”

You smiled, warm as his breath on your cheek, “No, Stan I—I wanted to come here, so—”

                “I know, but…”

                “It’s okay—”

                “I—”

You watched each other, voices drowned down to nothing. The brown in his eyes met the shine in yours, shades plucked from his face and held worriedly between his hands that fidgeted with the plastic frames and temples. The way his mouth opened and hung there, wordless, was so unlike him but so incredibly Stan at the same time, and it was both a treat and a devastating display of uncertainty that he hated to show and you hated to see. You breathed.

                “Can I get you a… drink, _mate_?” He blinked at you. You took the glasses from his hands, and he looked down and back up to see you wearing them, too big for your face, concealing your eyes from him. Delayed, he pressed his palm to his stomach and snickered.

                “Shouldn’t I be getting _you_ a drink, sir?”

                “I _love_ when you call me _sirrrrr._ ” He grinned wide enough to bare teeth, fingers digging into the layers over his belly, starting to tighten. “Stop, Doe… D—Dick.” His hand clamped over his face the moment that word came out, and he snorted into his palm. “You’re going to—”

                “ _Ahm thorsty_ —okay I don’t know what this accent is doing.”

                “Oh my God—” His hand swiped up over his brow, concealing his face while the other knotted into his shirt.

                “ _Stahn—_ fuck, uh, Sexon, _shit_ , _SAXON—_ ” he whined ahead of you, “Get me a _Doctah Peppah_ —”

He roared. He bellowed. You startled at the volume of it and he had a good two or three seconds of pure joy before

Snap.

His laugh may have been loud, but this sound was deafening, if only from how unexpected it was. He doubled over with his face close to yours and his arm forced around his waist, eyes wide and stricken with humiliation. You weren’t able to process it. His silence told you nothing more, but a flicker of your eyes over his body eventually brought the conclusion to mind that his girdle had _burst_ , and this may have been the first time it had ever done so. You didn’t know how to react. He didn’t know what to do.

In his silent breathlessness and ears that felt too hot to bear and thrummed with blood, it became even less of a problem when a guard approached, hand stern on his shoulder.

                “I thought I recognised that laugh,” she turned him around and he obeyed, careful to keep his arms wrapped around his torso. “Didn’t I deal with you a couple of days ago? Back causing more trouble _already_?”

It was impressive how fast he could fix himself in a pinch. Faced with her, he straightened, keeping one hand at his abdomen while the other coiled into a fist at his hip. “I think you’re thinking of someone else. I’m here with my confrere—” he stepped aside to unveil you, and you waved demurely, “To keep him safe. You understand, you’re in a similar business.”

                “Right.” She glanced between you before settling her attention on the shorter of the two, “And you’re with this guy, is that right?”

You didn’t say anything.

                “Uh, it’s okay, _Colbee_ , you can… say hi. This one’s safe, she works here, _you know_?”

                “R—R _oight._ ” Your expression didn’t change, smile tight and the insecurity in your eyes hidden from sight. “I’m with my bodyg _ah_ d, Saxon.”

                “See?” Stan attempted to stand between you, but she held him aside with alarming strength against his arm. “Ah, no trouble here. We were just about to get a drink.”

                “For that, and a _number_ of other reasons, I’m going to need to see your IDs. Both of you.”

Your stomach flipped and heartrate quickened to the point that it almost became visible, and in a swift exchange of glances with Stan, he picked it up in an instant. He shifted behind her, diverting her attention solely on him with both arms raised in defence.

                “Okay, okay, about that—” He patted down his upper thighs, “I think our IDs are up in our room, simple mistake. How ‘bout we go get them and hey, if somethin’ fucky is going on, you won’t see either of us again, okay? No problems for anyone.”

                “Are you aware of how suspicious that sounds? Like, do you really expect that to work?”

                “No. But,” he tore the unlatched girdle from under his shirt and threw it at her, and in the baffled flurry of trying to catch it and decipher just _what the fuck it was_ , he turned and bolted, yelling,  “Dick, _run!_ ”

You watched him sprint away with the most surprising of agility, and in the moment it took for her to process what had happened, you snuck aside and ran in the opposite direction. Without turning back, you reached the escalator to the second floor, and ran up it as fast as you could go without knocking into anyone and disappeared into the thickness of a crowd.

He reached the second floor from an elevator on the opposite side of the hall. Taking a moment to breathe, he walked through the cafeteria and along the glass bannisters that stopped one from falling below, bringing an equanimity to his step, all while searching with panicked turns of his head to find you. He dug into his pocket for his phone, the only thing he thought to bring, and got as far as the home screen before remembering that you hadn’t yet exchanged numbers. His hand tensed around it. He thought of how he had disappointed you, how awfully the night had gone, your expression when he had been ignoring you and the look on your face when his girdle had broken. Not one part he recollected favourably, save the effort you put into making him laugh, and the comfort you offered, regardless of whether he thought he deserved it. Stuffing the phone away, he turned. You turned. Seeing each other, you each rushed forward and collected in each other’s arms.

                “I’m sorry,” he squeezed his arms around you, once again picking up the scent of saltwater and the memory of distant waves with his nose burrowed in the crest of your neck. He sighed into it. “This was fucked, I fucked it up—”

                “It’s okay—” Your arms settled around his waist, reaching only far enough for your hands to clutch him at the back.

                “I…” he pulled off to hold you at the shoulders with both hands, “No, it’s not. I said I would keep you safe and I’m not done, I’m not done yet. I’m going to get you home safe.” He sighed again. “I promise.”

While simple, the plan made you both disquieted, neither wanting to separate again. You would go first, make a beeline for the exit, and he would leave some ten minutes after to avoid unnecessary suspicion. Having exchanged phone numbers, finally, he squeezed your hand and offered a reassuring smile and a nod before you ventured off. He watched from his vantage over the bannisters, ensuring you made it without interference, and let out a long, onerous breath when you did. He checked his phone.

“made it. i’m on the street by the hershey store :)”

“Great, just coming out now. Meet you there. x”

Pocketing it again, he made his way with his head ducked until he could breathe the freshest outdoor air Vegas could offer, and it was good enough for him. He walked along the pathways that roped around until they reconnected with the strip. Darkness had overtaken it, bringing out the startling, garish lights that Vegas was best known for, and the strangest of the strangers along with it. He listened to the sound of traffic, of yelling and heels against gravel and four songs from different sources blaring into one indiscernible noise. He reached the outside of one particular store that reeked of sugar and, upon not finding you there, began to panic until he turned his head and saw you inside, paying at the register.

He shuffled and kicked his feet against the floor. Made sense to get something sweet after the day you’d had. He considered the ways he could make it up to you, but each idea fell flat with the thought of how many unique and personal ways he could ruin it. His attention drifted across his surroundings until it landed on the opposite side of the street—he stood alert, taking one final glimpse inside to check on you before jogging through traffic as fast as his worn-out legs and buxom frame could allow. He made his own purchase while you made yours, and soon returned at the entrance of the frustratingly cartoonish chocolatier with an assured grin paraded across his face, his hand wringing through his hair and a bouquet of flowers clutched in the other.

You were about to come out; he peered through the glass with his head upturned to see a bag being returned to you, and the usual nod of a _thank you, have a great day_. He stood aside to a more reflective panel, raking his hair to one side and tugging at the bottom of his shirt to straighten it. Sharp. Sharp enough, at least. His reflection smiled back. Had he more time, he would have recited something peppy to himself to jostle the nerves in his belly and put his head in the right place. He took a deep breath instead. Turned, he saw a man with his date, arms looped and walking side by side. A little further along, he saw another couple, bluntly sharing a private moment on the publicity of the strip with their lips connected and one leg popped. A youthful, shirtless man offering pictures for money. A group of 20-somethings on a night out, laughing. _Laughing at what?_

His reflection frowned back. His palm tightened around the stems, the other pressing in with unsure fingers into the meat of his stomach, giving it a pat, then a squeeze. He leaned closer to decipher the grey of his roots, the creases at the corner of each eye, the depth of the same just underneath, on either side of his mouth, on his forehead; worry-lines, crow’s feet, untamed brows, and then down at his worn hands, aching knuckles and rough finger pads. His expression held the exhaustion and uncertainty that resembled himself, last he saw himself like that, at the darkest point of his life. The flowers fell behind the building’s edge in a rickle of petals and ribbons.

                “What did you get?” He asked, walking beside you, hands forced into his pockets.

                “Chocolate strawberries.” You beamed at him, and he found himself returning it. “You can have one if you’d like, there are six of them I think.”

                “Maybe,” he swallowed, pulling his jacket on either side forward to cover his stomach, “maybe another time.” Your head cocked to the side.

                “Are you sure? They’re really good, look.”

Reaching inside, you rustled your hand at the bag’s contents, bringing up one of the treats between finger and thumb and held it out to him. Hesitation didn’t last long, and he reached up to take it, getting a glimpse of reddish residue drippling down your hand until you noticed and licked it off, sucking the remainder off of your thumb. He turned away with the strawberry stuffed into his mouth.

Compunction drenched his thoughts to the point of suffocation and he found himself unable to know what to say. He looked to the sidewalk, the cracks of dingy grey along the edge of the pavement, at his own feet walking with a slight drag and the soft taps of the aglets at the tip of his shoelaces against his faded leather shoes. You had similarly quietened, though he couldn't read the comfort in your sloped shoulders, your gaze upward at your surroundings in taciturn reflection, a third strawberry held to your lips. In a moment he quickly regretted, he wished he had been holding it for you.

                “I—”

He reached out to you, and in your turn towards him, your heel twisted and ankle bent in your shoe, sending you in an uncoordinated twirl that he grabbed at with outreached hands to correct and a sharp gasp at your fettle. In the process, you gripped his wrist and tugged him back with you, both toppling into the perfectly appurtenant fountain immediately behind you.

                “Ow, ow, ow...” You rubbed at your backside, seated in chlorine-dense water reaching up to your hips before reaching up to wipe away the droplets seeping over your eyes. Once opened, you were met with Stan—inches away, hands perched in the water between your legs to hold himself steady, and a stream pouring directly from the fountain onto his head. He groaned, eyes pressed shut, and you laughed gently into the back of your hand at his irascible expression.

                “Stan,” you paused to duck your head as your shoulders trembled with mirth, “Stan, I'm so sorry. Are you OK?” When he said nothing, your fingers made their way to his face, stopping short of his jaw and cheek before rising to graze a greying lock of hair out of his way. His eyelids startled open, and a second later, he was laughing with you.

                “Fine, I'm fine. A shit day just gets shittier, huh?” Standing, his throat complained at the ache in his lumbar as he helped you up with a firm grasp around your shoulders, his other arm hooking under your knees to carry you back to the strip's concrete shore. You examined him on the short journey, the tight puffs through his nose with skin of a warmer shade as he stepped over the ledge and squeezed you tighter to his chest in the process, at the pads of his jacket that you knew covered stalwart shoulders and the crease along his mouth on both sides that accentuated his chin and jaw and connected with his cheekbone. He was hale and magnetic. 

Heels clacked against the ground when he eased you back down, both of you creating dark speckles below as droplets fell from your clothes, and before he could speak, your hands went to his hair again; he held his breath; damp beneath your fingertips, then to your own, you were equally soaked and bleeding with vibrancy.

                “This hair chalk didn't last very long. That's a shame,” you turned your hand over to spot the colourful residue staining your palm, “I was hoping it'd last a bit longer.”

                “Well, I never said it was _hair_  chalk.”

 _“Stan_.” Your fist collided with his arm and he shrugged, laughed and patted you on the back.

                “Let's get home and dry off, bud.”

A step forward had your ankle roll again with a hiss through your teeth as he caught you, one hand at the waist and one at your arm to help regain your balance, and you breathed an expletive that caught him by surprise. He offered you his arm, wordless but with solicitude in his smile and the curve of his brows. You took it with requited sentiment.

There were other things you noticed on the last stretch home. His biceps, triceps and deltoids, thick as they already were, would tense when he laughed. His smile was wide and very nearly symmetrical, slightly crooked to the right. He liked to smile with his teeth. At the door to the hotel room, you removed your shoes and held them over hooked index and middle fingers while he unlocked and opened it, stepping back to allow you first entrance. You showered individually, changed into commodious clothes, regrouped as your truer selves and split the small chocolate cake in half between you. After cutting it, he reached, hesitated, and took the smaller slice.

                “This is so fucking good,” you spoke through a mouthful, swiping your thumb over your lower lip. His brows raised.

                “I don't know what it is about it, but I never expect to hear you swear,” he took a bite that almost obliterated his entire slice. “Don't feel like you gotta stop, though. Reminds me that I can do it too if I want to.”

You swallowed with a reserved nod of your head and your hand covering your mouth.

                “Fuck.”

He grinned.

                “Shit.”

                “Ass.”

                “Dick.”

                “Yes?” 

Stan roared at that, hand slapping to his knee bent over the edge of the bed where he sat across from you. He finished off his treat and stared down at the sticky state of his fingers. A pang knotted in his stomach.

                “So...” His hands collected ahead of him, wringing and then settling with fingertips perched together, “You excited for your birthday tomorrow?”

It could have been a second of silence. It could definitely have been two, maybe three seconds where nothing was said, your eyes a little wider for a fraction of that time, and the sound of a dry swallow the only audible reprieve. No matter how long it was, it certainly didn’t feel like it.

                “Oh,” you took another second that felt like a thousand, “Wow, I completely forgot about that actually. Yeah—yeah! I am.”

                “That’s great. D… Doe, I, uh…”

                “Stan—” He looked up from where his gaze had fallen to see you not looking back, “Can I ask you something?”

Something inside him fluttered.

                “Yeah, sure.”

                “You… seemed really nervous today. Granted, I’ve only known you for a few days, but… it didn’t seem like you.”

Something inside him sank.

                “Was there something wrong?” You finished, bringing your eyesight directly into his.

He breathed in, a deep breath that made his stomach disappear into his chest and then return with a lengthy sigh through his mouth while his arm lifted to scratch feebly at the side of his neck. The other hand, fingertips held taut over his upper thigh, slid down to his knee and gripped there.

                “I dunno,” he shrugged with a bob of his head, “I felt bad that I got you into such a mess. Guilty, y’know.”

                “It was a bit messy, sure, but I had fun. I don’t think it was as bad as you think it was.”

                “I was worried about’cha.” His voice went terse, fingers tensed around his kneecap and tendons tight under the skin. You expected more. He expected more. Nothing came.

In a moment where his head fell and eyesight focused with murky concentration on the threads between his legs, on anything that could capture his mentality, hold it and keep it an arm’s length away from him, he heard you shift. A soft, nearly inaudible sound of bare feet on carpet. Softer still, the sound of your breath in his ear, head tucked into his neck as you spread your arms around the width of his shoulders and held him to your chest where he remained seated. He barely reacted, save from sneaking one arm under yours and around your torso to reach his face, push up his glasses which had slipped down his nose, and then place that same hand to the small of your back. The warmth of his palm soaked into you.

                “Thank you,” you spoke into his bare skin, “For taking care of me and showing me such a good time.”

Your head lifted and turned to face him, to press your lips to his cheek for a chaste symbol of gratitude, and he turned as well. Your mouth connected with the corner of his, and in that second before you pulled away, his lips pursed against you.

You both separated entirely.

                “We’d better get some sleep,” he stood and got into bed with immediacy in his motions, keeping his expression and bloomed features away from you, “Got a big day tomorrow, if we’re going to find someone for you to have fun with.”

                “Yeah… yeah. Right.” You wriggled into your sheets and reached across to turn off the lamp, to remove the warm glow separating him from you, where he lay on his side and faced away.

                “Goodnight, Saxon.”

                “G’night, Dick.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something snapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! Having it planned out for over a year now has me all nervous to put it together, haha. But I really hope you enjoy this part. :) Thank you so much again for all of your support!
> 
> See you on the other side. ✌️

The dense scent of chlorine was redolent and intrusive. Reedy spools of the fragrant water trickled into the pool below, shallow and translucent with the haziest gloom of bezique, bubbles framing the edges of its concrete confinement; so cold that, when it dotted the skin with dews from its impact against the surface, it burned in its unfamiliarity. He sat with his knees parted and feet rolled slightly on their sides, index finger of his left hand hooked into his collar to pull it taut and breathe a protracted sigh. His other hand passed through his hair. Like a wolf’s pelt, surprisingly thick for his age and humanity, a deep pewter shade with light strings of stone. Underneath, the hair in the same colour and almost the same breadth covered his chest, visible in faint scratches under a gauzily sodden shirt. He imbued something, without realising, in the way he was careless and wayward and ineradicably broad. Something that worsened when he made a low sound from the depths of his stomach and curled his fingers around the bottom hem, peeling the white cloth away from his skin. His skin that was warm, even from a distance, as warm and inviting as the smile that spread across his otherwise amorphous face. He avulsed the shirt altogether.

Without it, water and sweat trickled freely between his pectorals and across his belly; beaded onto his forehead; rolling down his cheek and jaw until it dripped from the tip of his chin. The muscles in his arms tensed. Reaching up over his head, they swelled further, and the sound of a breathy laugh escaped him in a sound that reached closer than his stance. He fanned himself with his hand. In that movement, his eyes became nascent as they squeezed shut and then fluttered open again, a dazzling and deep earthy shade with lashes framing them. Under his chest, where hairs crept downwards until they met in a dark bushel, he sucked in a breath that made it, for a moment, more pronounced. His palms slipped to his thighs, further parted. He exhaled again.

A second laugh, more abashed in nature, and he turned his head away. It instilled solemn encouragement. Discarding thoughts and feelings of uncertainty, ones that he was no doubt holding onto with contrite fists, you ventured forward to graze, first, your little finger against his. He turned his eyes to it and then to you. A breath later and his hand was upturned, fingers curled together with yours and a blaring heat spread up your arm. His grin returned in full, bringing along with it the creases at the corners of his eyes that signified years of what you hoped had been laughter and happiness, and that imbued something filled your chest and abdomen. Your other hand rose to the side of his face, thumb circling his cheek, long unshaven and beginning to pinken. You bowed in unison until your foreheads met together. His lips parted, and before you could act on your instinct to capture them and feel his breath within you, he spoke with candid depth and tenderness,

                “Morning, sleepyhead.”

You woke to find him standing above you, dressed in his dusty suit and claret bow. Watching you squint away the obtrusive sunlight sheening through open curtains and adjust to the waking world, Stan snickered into the ball of his fist and patted your ankle through the bedding, a thoughtful expression behind the mocking sound. You shifted to perch upon your elbows, one eye squeezed shut and the other searching for the clock nearby.

                “I’d sing ya Happy Birthday, but I don’t think you’d like to hear that coming from _this_ voice. Anyway, Happy—”

                “ _Stan_ ,” you rubbed the thenar of your palm to your forehead, “It’s past _noon_.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “So? Who doesn’t like sleepin’ in on their birthday? Besides, you look good ‘n’ rested.” His hand slipped further up your leg towards your knee where it stopped, patted again there, and rescinded. 

Giving yourself a moment to collect everything inside you that had scattered, he turned and brought back with him a plate, placed with delicacy into your lap. In came with it a scent you hadn't had the mind to notice until then: powdered sugar sweet almost to the point of cloying, two syrupy strawberries that cemented that impression, on top of warm crêpes and confused with the salt of a bacon smile that framed its edible face. Your stomach growled rather loud, and in response, Stan grinned just as wide and bowed his head.

                “Ordered room service while you were conked out. Happy Birthday, bud.” Just as you began to process your appreciation and simultaneously ignore the warmth that lingered below your waistline, he removed himself from ahead of you and, with renewed focus, you realised that he had completely forgone pants. You nearly choked on your first bite.

He spent a while afterwards sifting through his wallet while seated at the end of his bed; peering at notes, coins, and photos, some of which wilted with age under his fingertips. In moments where he believed it wouldn't matter, he glanced towards you. _Just checking to see if they're finished._  He took your empty albeit sugar-smeared plate when you had, and you thanked him on your way to the bathroom.

                “So,” he startled you when you returned, with all the loudness of his voice, his stance at the centre of the room, and the forceful excitement in his tone. “Do you want to get ready?” 

                “Sure.” You spoke with half the heart you had intended. In the second his smile faltered it was back again, and he clapped his hands together ahead of him.

                “I'm halfway dressed, so, so no need to worry about me. Do you need any help with yours?” He reached up with one hand, which disappeared with sheepish withdrawal when you responded quickly.

                “No, that's OK—I, ah, know what I'm going to do.” 

                “Alright.”

It was an uneasy dance to get past each other and trade places, and then he was seated back in his usual spot once his trousers had been retrieved and tugged across his legs, belted, and fastened. While you disappeared to the bathroom to change into clothes that he had stolen a glance at on the way, he spent what small period of time he was alone trying to guess what it was. It looked nice. A reverent smile appeared and disappeared just as quickly, directed at his hands which had collected in his lap, as he imagined you in it.

It was forgotten entirely when you stood in the doorway, surrounded by molten luminescence that framed the outline of your body, catching his attention with adamantine concentration. His lips parted without thought, tightening a moment later with a rough, dry swallow that was silent to you and deafening to him. After a languid once over from top to bottom, his attention caught up with your expression; curved brows, irresolute posture and lips pouted to one side, fingers threaded together ahead of your stomach; he cleared his throat and stood to tower as he always did.

                “You definitely knew what you were doing,” his arms moved up, to his sides, then behind him as he found no better placement for them. Words blurred incomprehensibly in his head, fluttering between options that didn’t satisfy his want and desire to praise you, how those colours worked perfectly on you, how much they complemented your eyes as you reciprocated that mere and only contact, how your hair was bostin after having been so adorably askew from sleep only a small while prior, how your waist would be a fit of sensational divinity in his hand, if only he could hold you. Erased by the desire to apologise for his thoughtless lack of manners.

                “You look great.” He gave you a thumbs up. You returned it.

                “Do you have a place in mind for us to go…?” You asked, voice subdued and diverting your focus to attend to your belongings. Inside you, something in your belly that crept around your sides and into your chest felt unimaginably heavy and unsettled. Funny, though, as you couldn’t recall eating an anchor. You tried to supress it as best as possible while he slipped his wallet into his back pocket, snug against his behind, and his phone into the pocket of his jacket where his hands remained there.

                “I have a few recommendations,” he ambled towards the door and opened it for you, “I’ll only take you places I trust, don’t worry. Vegas has its reputation, but it has some really great hotspots if you have the time and dollar for ‘em.” Your skin jumped when the door thudded to a close behind you, bringing a light chuckle out of him, which withered away when he saw you fully.

                “You OK?” His palm smoothed between your shoulder blades. “You don’t look so hot,” figuratively speaking, “do you want to get some water first?”

                “No, no, it’s fine—I’m fine—I’m excited, really. It’ll be fun!”

                “Sure will.” He gave his signature crooked, tooth-bearing grin and walked with you down the hallway, a silent journey in the elevator, and out into the early evening heat.

Wood as dark as coal framed the doorway to the bar he took you to, a modest one, not nearly as packed with people as you had worriedly anticipated, with deep music that rumbled below your feet as you entered. The lighting inside was dim in shades orange and yellow, reflected on cool countertops of dusky marble with bolts of white shocked through them, and stools fortunately made with comfort in mind. You balanced yourself on the balls of your feet to get your posterior into the seat, and after a second of trying, Stan offered his hand with a short bow of his head. You took it. Balanced on his weight, he lifted you until you felt settled.

                “Alright, here’s the plan: I’ll do rounds and see what we’re dealing with here.” He hushed close to your side, facing forward so as to give the impression that he wasn’t speaking directly to you. “Get ‘em talking, get an idea if they’re worth your time, then send ‘em over if they seem like a good… match.”

His fingertips drummed against the glassy surface ahead of you both. Before you could chime in, he rolled his shoulders and leaned sideward, “What name should I give ‘em? We could make up something new for tonight. People love a good mystery, believe me.”

                “I think Doe will be fine—”

                “Don’t wanna give ‘em your real name? That’s smart. So, uh…” he faced you with an emphatic grin, “What _is_ your name? Just so I know for _absolutely sure_ what _not_ to tell them.”

You took a moment, bottom lip caught between your teeth, and you saw after that moment had passed that he quickly resigned himself. _Worth a shot._ Right when he had turned his head away, your hand touched his shoulder and he stiffened entirely. You told him in a voice only he could hear. Hearing your true name, the name that would bring you the most comfort and that you dearly wished you could hear in his voice, his every pretence softened. He gave you an expression so brimmed with esteem that for a few moments longer, you forgot where you were, and it didn’t matter either. Although short, the second that lingered there held incomparable wealth. You felt all the richer to have shared it with him.

He said something. You didn’t catch it, and then he was gone, and you felt such extreme embarrassment that your spine turned to metal, unable to turn or look at anything besides your hands. The difficulty with which you trudged through thoughts like wading through swamp water brought nausea with it, and your arms and sides shivered despite the heat from what might as well have been brooder heat lamps. His quick wit and sharp tongue seemed to have worked: a man approached you, hiding his nerves under a black tie tightened up to his Adam’s apple. He offered to buy you a drink. Mouth agape for longer than you wanted, you asked for water.

Stan, shifted to the back of the room with a furtive peer over his shoulder, watched you and the man he had decided you deserved. He hunched forward, caged over himself, and watched. Watched him laugh. Watched him talk. Watched him laugh again. But you didn’t.

He left you where you sat and you turned back to your hands.

A short while later, another person approached you. The weight in your stomach could rip through your skin and leave you torn in two. She broke the ice with a joke; you laughed, finally, and let your nerves settle to a point that you could at least sit a little more still. She smiled brilliantly at you, about to sit, two words into asking _How are you_ —before you reached for the water the previous man had received for you and knocked it onto her lap, soaking her skirt in dark blotches.

You apologised, and she left with shivered steps.

A third someone approached you a while after that, a long gap of time between where quietened chatter in the room galvanised your paranoia; talking about _you_ , of course, how clumsy you are. You looked up to see _them_.

Dark hair in locks and waves, tipped eyelids in solid black, nightshade nails, a smile so delicate but curled at the corners with deepened creases on either side; devilish epicenity that coiled the air out of your lungs, and clothing embroidered with iridescent stars. They laughed, their voice deep enough to feel in your diaphragm, and told you that

                “You’re probably the most stunning person here.”

Your mouth opened to speak. They waited for you, and after a spell, they placed their hand to their chest and gave a coy tip of their head.

                “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. The—uh, friend of yours, _very_ flattering man, told me about you. I couldn’t resist coming over after hearing what he said.”

It shocked you that you didn’t give yourself whiplash when your head whipped around to check on him, to see Stan chatting with someone and laughing his earnest laugh and looking so thoroughly blissful embroiled in conversation. It felt different.

It hurt.

                “What did he say about me?” You focused back on them with a smile tucked into your palm, while Stan caught you, saw you with your adoring and pleasant expression, and retreated with pained spirits to the back of the room.

 

 

 

 

                “Come here often?” Stan leaned one elbow on the bar counter, other hand splayed at his hip and a comfortable weight to his eyelids while he looked you over. “Guess not, ‘cause I think I’d remember _you_.”

Yeah, that’s what he’d say.

Then you would smile, that unbelievable, irreplaceable smile of yours, and you would laugh into the cup of your hand. Maybe you would perch yourself with a little more pronunciation and he wouldn’t feel quite so guilty about staring, moving one arm around your shoulders when you replied with a voice smoother and richer than the drink cradled between your fingertips, “I don’t, but I’d better start if _you_ are what I have to look forward to.”

He’d feel a buzz all throughout him, dull electricity and pleasant nerves, and he’d ask you, if he may, what he could call you? And you would answer, that name that felt and sounded like the best thing he’d ever heard as it came from you, drawing him closer.

                “What was that?” He’d joke, releasing you to hold a hand up to his ear. You would repeat it, more of a sultry whisper that time while you leaned into his shoulder, and he would shiver under the dense layers of his shirt and dark shoulder pads.

                “Stan.”

Oh, yes, he would tell you his name in reply, that’s what you can call him. After only a second he would feel something at his knee, and find that you had placed your hand there, squeezing before slipping an aching inch up his thigh.

                “Stan.”

Right, maybe you’d say it back, breath on his cheek while he went a bit red and brought his hand to your lower back, teasing his little finger against the hem of underwear he swore he could feel under your clothing.

                “Stanley.”

Even _better_ , he felt his chest brimming and bouncing with the excitability of his heartbeat, and

                “ _Stanley?_ ”

He turned away from where his chin had nestled into his palm, seated and gaping up at you where you had appeared in reality and stood beside him. There was nothing he could say, and in place of anything coherent, he made a shuddered noise from his throat and pushed his seat backwards with tense hands at the counter’s edge. His life had been filled, coated and stuffed with weirdness, so he hoped to hell that you hadn’t been blessed with telepathic powers.

                “Yeah?” He finally croaked out.

                “Stanley,” You offered your unbelievable, irreplaceable smile and he thought that perhaps you had the supernatural power to make his insides melt instead, “I think I’d like to go home now.”

Darkness had fallen upon the scintillating city, still bounding with echoes of daytime heat that radiated from the street below and hung in a thick veil between and around you. The music left behind roared in your absence, stultified behind glass, which Stan leaned his back against with a quarter of his strength. His jacket had been removed and folded over the crease of his arm, white sleeves rolled to his elbows underneath. It was only a walk away, thank goodness, yet you stood with the heels of your feet together and your head downturned, a speech in your head and stuck in your throat, and the weight in your stomach growing heavier. His chest felt tight. He tried to search you from the side, from what he could see of your face and the depth of your breath, and eased himself forward to stand with more purpose on the ground.

He spoke your name with the temperament of someone with twice his patience, the softest thing he had ever said to you, like someone you had known for years rather than a matter of days. A beautiful stranger, a strange friend. Someone you knew better than anyone else in the city and who knew you all the same. He reflected openly on the evening, the darkness of the sky, the stars, how he hoped your birthday had been a good one. It had. You told him so. Again, he said your name, directed with absolute focus on you with his body tilted to face you, and he took a step forward.

                “You’re not just saying that, are you?” There was no smile, no worried crease on his brow, no wrinkle on his nose to demonstrate stress or discomfort or any definitive joy. His stance was taut, his body on the end of marionette strings being controlled by all the willpower he could convoke, still with resounding solicitude in his eyes as they searched yours with confined desperation. You saw it in them. He was imposing, the way he was standing, and you would have felt threatened if you hadn’t seen it.

                “I’m not,” your hand wrapped around the bicep of his left arm, tense underneath your grasp. A shared muddle of confliction and hesitation filled congenial silence, before you continued, reposed, “it’s been amazing with you.” Your hold on him slipped. On its way down, he captured it with his own before it could escape and rubbed the worn pad of his thumb in small circles over your knuckles. His other hand brought itself towards your shoulder, hovering there, then to the side of your jaw, running light fingertips against the nape where your skin prickled. His thumb went to your chin. Tilting you, a fraction and an aching millennia, you fell away and never came back again, and he was falling with you, forehead to yours, noses bumped together until he skewed his position and his lips took yours, slow and complete.

It was warmer than Vegas air. It was softer than cotton sheets, freshly cleaned and dried. It was space, volts in your blood and fire building from your feet to the top of your head and he pulled away before you could appreciate it how you were begging to. Your eyes flickered open to meet him, stilled, mouth parted and fear in every pleat on his temple. You’d never seen him look so afraid before.

You crashed together with your hands tangled in his hair and his fingers cupping either side of your face; pulling you until you could burst, he drank from you, and you made a noise into his mouth so fraught with carelessly eager, frantic arousal, he couldn’t help returning it. Moving downwards to grip tight knots into his shirt, he mirrored you and curled his arms around your waist, yanking your body to his so it spread against him and pushed your back against the glass behind you, trapping you there.

                “I made you a promise,” he spoke low, parted from you only enough to allow a necessary intake of oxygen as his chest pressed with tight compressions against yours.

                “To keep me safe?”

                “Well, yes, that,” He laughed—one light, breath of a laugh—and took you with more conviction, urging himself into you with a smile you could feel against your own. “I promised you a good fuck before your vacation ends. And I’m going to give it to you.”


End file.
